A Window to the Past
by bane the luchador
Summary: The nights that England treasures most are the ones when France plays his violin. France/England, past France/Joan of Arc


**A Window to the Past**

**Summary- **The nights that England treasures most are the ones when France plays his violin.

**Written By: Necury**

**Rated: T**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia.

**Genre: Romance/Hurt Comfort**

**Warnings:** Cheesiness and emo!France (Oh god, what have I done? D:)

**Author's Note: **I wrote this for the lovely **Xxzomgcheri00sxX **over on dA like two years ago and it just occurred to me that I never posted it here. She wanted a FrUk in which France plays the violin for England.

So, uh, enjoy?

* * *

During the day, they fight. They fight at world meetings. They fight at public events. They even fight in restaurants and on busses. If they are in the public eye, fighting is inevitable.

But at night, when they are completely alone, they are at peace with one another. Instead of bickering, their time is spent exchanging civil conversation. England prefers the nighttime. He loves when they spend the evening sipping wine in France's town house, the Eiffel Tower illuminated in the background. He loves when they take his small boat out for a sail on the Channel, stargazing from their nest of blankets on the deck.

But what England loves most is when Frances plays for him. France is exceptional at the violin, perhaps even rivaling Austria himself. But he keeps his talent a secret, only to be revealed on rare occasions. Only for England. Those are the nights England treasures.

Tonight is one of those nights, but it is also a very special occasion. France has been acting uncharacteristically somber the entire day, and England has respected his silent request for solitude. As the evening approaches, however, he decides that it is in France's best interest to spend the night with his mournful lover.

After an evening of delicious food and Spanish wine, they lounge on the veranda of France's country house. The sky is clear and the gentle breeze that caresses their skin is pleasantly cool, combating the warm summer night. France picks up his violin from its case lying next to him and tucks it between his chin and shoulder. His eyes catch England's before he closes them. Then he begins to play.

The tune that flows from the violin is slow and sad and it takes England a moment to recognise it. He smiles bitterly at the musical choice, his gaze trained on France. The elder blonde's eyes are closed and his face is at ease, except for the ghost of a frown on his lips. England's own eyes fall shut as he allows the melody to carry him away.

They stay like that for a while - France translating his sorrows into music as England listens with silent understanding - until the song comes to an end. England slowly opens his eyes to see France clutching the violin to his chest, his face turned downwards.

"Francis?"

The island nation moves to kneel in front of his lover. He hesitantly reaches out to brush aside the golden hair but flinches back when he spots wetness on France's cheeks.

"I used to play this song for her, you know. . ." France begins quietly, reverently. "During the war, when she couldn't sleep at night. She told me it was far too sad to play as a lullaby, but it always put her to sleep anyway. . . The last thing she asked of me was to play this song right before they carted her off to. . . t-to. . . " The French blonde trails off as fresh tears fall from his eyes.

"Fr-francis. . . ?" England tries again. His effort is rewarded when France finally looks up from his violin.

"A-ah, _je suis désolé_." The Frenchman says, forcing a smile that does not reach his eyes. "I did not mean to become so emotional. I just. . . got lost in the moment."

England winces at the horribly fake smile on that handsome face. He takes the violin from the elder nation and gently sets it back in its case. Then he pulls himself up and climbs onto France's lap. He sits so that he is face-to-face with his lover.

"You damn frog. . ." The island mutters fondly. He takes the Frenchman's face in his hands and begins kissing away the tears that linger on his cheeks. "You didn't ruin anything." _kiss_ "That song just brought back some bad memories, is all." _kiss_ "And she was right, you know. It _is_ bloody sad." _kiss kiss_

Once he's kissed away all the tears, England pulls back to see France smiling. A genuine smile, one that lights up his entire face. It makes him utterly beautiful.

The elder blonde nation presses his smiling mouth to England's, giving him a proper kiss. England responds by opening himself up for his lover and France takes the invitation. Their tongues twine together in the Englishman's mouth slowly.

France's heart seems to grow wings so he winds his arms around his island to ground himself because he feels as if he'd fly away otherwise.

He eventually pulls away and looks up at the nation perched in his lap. The fondness that he sees in those green green eyes sends his spirit rocketing towards the full moon above their heads. He leans forward to rest his head against England's chest, and closes his eyes. He listens to the steady thump thump thump of England's heart, and thinks back to his _Jeanne_. About those long nights that he'd hold her close and listen to her heart beat to the same rhythm. His own chest tightens painfully and his eyes burn but there is a smile on his face.

And he knows that, wherever she is, _Jeanne_ is smiling too.

* * *

I. . . I'm sorry I made you sit through that mess of purple fail.

**Notes: **

_je suis désolé _– I'm sorry

_Jeanne _– Joan, as in Joan of Arc


End file.
